


Undesired Revenge

by foreignobjecticus



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst, Blood, Break Up, Crying, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s04e11 Orbit, Improvised weapons, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25016839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreignobjecticus/pseuds/foreignobjecticus
Summary: The events that took place on Malodaar are no more repairable as they are forgivable, and two lovers learn this the hardest way they can. (Rape/non-con warning for a forced kiss. Play it safe, my children.)
Relationships: Kerr Avon/Vila Restal
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Undesired Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> Another 5 hour job, lightly betaed, written from 8pm - 1am re-read once. I hope it actually manages to be any good! Thanks to the amazingly inspiring Christie_Cavedish (idk how to link, sorry!) who has made writing so easy with their fantastic discussions lately.  
> 

The Scorpio crew knew something had gone wrong down on Malodaar, and they all had their inklings as to what. The loss of the Tachyon Funnel was regrettable, but a necessary sacrifice; _the shuttle was too heavy_ Avon had said. Then _why_ did it take nearly half an hour to break orbit, and _why_ had the shuttle not had enough fuel to take them back to Scorpio once they’d cleared the atmosphere? Neither problem should have occurred once they’d jettisoned half the ship, and yet here they were now – back on base, Avon unusually absent from the control room, and Vila storming about on a warpath to nowhere. He’d been blowing off steam for days, boiling over at little things he otherwise wouldn’t have thought twice about. But giving him time to get it out of his system hadn’t done him any good, and this morning Vila had yelled at Dayna until she’d cried. Tarrant couldn’t believe it, but he’d seen the poor girl barrelling past him in the corridor with a tear-streaked face not an hour ago, and now he’d confronted Soolin who had just spent the past ten minutes in a showdown with Vila in the galley.

 _“He’d come for something from our little stash under the benches, but when I didn’t let him have anything he hurled a chair across the room and screamed,”_ Soolin had reported Vila’s aberration with the same tone she used to read out the Xenon weather reports. That had made the knowledge that Vila was _violent_ somehow even more unsettling.

Now, Tarrant was stalking the halls of the base warily, his clip gun a comforting weight on his hip. He could take Vila if need be – he was young and Vila was old; he probably hadn’t fought hand-to-hand in his life, judging by the look of him – and yet… Tarrant still felt uneasy. Something really wasn’t right.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of a little silver stud lying in the corridor that led to Avon’s cabin. He hadn’t seen it at first, but when Tarrant trod over the hard metal it dug into the ball of his soft-heeled boot and made him jump in surprise. _Definitely one of Avon’s_ , he reasoned, stooping to pick up the stud. And then he heard it - a scuffle, light at first, but then came a thump, a crash, the sound of something clattering to the floor, and then muffled but obvious yelling.

Tarrant drew his gun and lunged down the hallway towards the last door and the only place the sounds could be coming from – Avon’s cabin.

“Avon?”

 _“-HATE YOU!”_ the scream was probably loud enough to be heard across the base.

“Vila! Avon!” Tarrant yelled and pummelled the door release. The sound of furniture crashing to the ground made Tarrant’s heart stop. His thoughts were a blur – but then he shot the door release in a moment of panic – fat lot of good it did; the door’s physical overrides had been activated. He hesitated a moment and then ran. Dayna would be able to blast the door, surely, and hopefully before it was too late…

_______________

Hurried footsteps followed him down the corridor, seemingly appearing from nowhere, and before he’d had a chance to turn, hands were on him and whirling him about.

“Come out from your damned hidey hole already?” Vila growled into Avon’s face and shook the handful of studded jacket he’d gathered in his fist. A brief, ultimately worthless struggled ensued – natural reaction; Avon was as surprised as Vila – and he wrenched himself from the younger man’s grip to the sound of tearing threads. A silver stud dropped to the floor and rolled away unnoticed as Vila marched Avon awkwardly by his shirtfront and backed him into his cabin, a determined and uncharacteristic look plastered on his face. Once inside, he released Avon’s jacket and turned his back, a little icicle of fear shuddering up his spine. _Never turn your back on the enemy_. The cabin door’s physical lock was engaged in an instant.

“Why come now?” Avon asked when Vila turned around, spreading his hands in a gesture unbecoming and uninvited.

“I want to know why.”

“We would have _both died, Vila._ YOU KNOW THAT!” Avon’s eyes flashed and he looked suddenly wild. His body jolted forwards and he took a step before abruptly flinging himself in the other direction.

“And you’d kill me instead?”

“To live, yes! I almost did.”

“There would have been another way-”

“And there WAS! Vila, we’re alive, we _survived_. I did _nothing to you_.”

It was like they’d already fought, and in a way they had – a hundred times in their own heads. Each man knew more than well enough to pre-empt the meaningless words they spoke.

“But you’re not sorry?”

“You think I _want_ to be sorry?”

“No,” Vila fired his sharpest glare down his nose and speared it through Avon’s heart. “You wish it had been me who’d killed you instead. You think I _would_ have done the same thing to you, had I gotten the gun first.”

Avon cut an arctic smile. “I’m not 73 kilos. You’d still have died.”

 _They’d both have died_.

“I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to _cry_ , Avon. Feel the fear, the betrayal-”

“Then exact your revenge. Take it! Beat me-”

“But I don’t want to _hurt_ you; can’t you see that?” Vila wailed, jerking a fistful of hair out from his head, caught under his broken nails. All the flesh he’d stripped from his fingers, the torn nails and punctured palm…

“ _Strip the insulation, Vila, remove the interior panels, Vila, space the stupid funnel_. Do this do that, help me make sure I save my own sorry arse and then toss yourself out when you’re finished. Don’t you see?” he lunged, circling the room like an agitated lion, biting back the rage that had come after his fear, the anger that he hadn’t- couldn’t- let vent for five whole days. While he’d stewed, Avon had hid just like he had on the shuttle, and now Vila wanted blood. But he didn’t. No, but he wanted tears, wanted to make Avon shriek and sob and wrench his heart from his chest and smash it to pieces in front of him and watch him shatter along with it. But he wouldn’t; Avon wasn’t even stone. All the gentle words, tender affection, clever hands and laughter and love and smiles-

“You don’t regret it at all!” he spun round against Avon’s workbench and threw his hands to the edge, bracing himself across the worktop like a physical obstacle for the barrier between them.

Avon said nothing, and Vila spat his accusation out again into a face that stayed silent.

Vila stared for a long time, face twitching with a dead-eyed glare. Much like he used to look at the bare wine rack in the base, or at the medicine cabinet absent of all its wonderful, numbing drugs. He looked at Avon now with sorrow little more strong than he’d have held for an empty bottle of the pills that helped him keep the hangovers at bay between his blissful nights of absent dreams-

“Take your shirt off,” his voice was calm, level. He, decidedly, was not. Avon obliged and slipped from his jacket and tunic, then shucked his black shirt to the pile of clothes on the floor. Vila sneered. Ribs, seven pairs of bones in stark relief poked out above a concave stomach and sharp, bony hips.

“Torturing yourself again? Staying in your room, not sleeping, not eating, not changing your filthy, stinking clothes. I thought I was the crew’s worthless mess, but it’s you, isn’t it?” He smiled the toothy, vile grin of hatred he’d learnt from Avon himself. “Turn around.”

Avon’s blank face betrayed nothing - no hint of shame, anger, malice, _love_.

Vila took up a length of thick electrical cord from the workbench, curling the exposed copper ends across his palm. A perverted cat of nine tails.

Rounding the workbench, he turned and brought the weighted cord down savagely through the air, the length slicing across Avon’s back and curling around his arm. The bastard hadn’t even been looking, but he barely flinched.

Vila’s throat constricted like he couldn’t breathe. He raised the cord from the ground and struck again. His jaw clenched. He struck again, again, _again_. Red welts surged up on Avon’s skin, prickling hot and angry, and Vila could feel their heat from across the room boiling his blood. The copper ends scratched like tiny electric shocks.

Vila whipped again, and then followed it with a fist into the tender side of Avon’s gut. The older man crumpled like a leaf, and that was the first time he made a sound.

“Good.”

“Good? _Good!_ ”

Vila saw red and kicked Avon down to the ground, standing on his shoulders and smiling like a madman when he felt the crunch of grinding bones under his foot. “You think this is GOOD, Avon? You sick piece of shit-” He stumbled, bent and hauled Avon up with a strength he’d never had. And when Avon was upright again, Vila forced his mouth on the other’s.

Teeth clashed and Vila bit down on Avon’s slack lip, tearing viciously at the soft skin as he pulled it away between his teeth. He tasted blood, more than he would have guessed, and drew back to finger the torn skin, handling Avon’s stiff body like a sick mannequin in his arms.

“Look at you!” he spat into Avon’s face and slapped a hand across the lip he’d mangled. Avon’s face set hard like a mask, fused into place against the humiliating blow, and he clenched his jaw until his teeth squeaked in his mouth. Still face to face, Vila felt a wave of revulsion at what he’d done. Avon’s pretty, sculpted lips- lips he _used_ to want to kiss.

“Your face…” he gasped out a sob that had caught up on him quicker than he’d noticed it coming. Tears were making him sniffle and choke. _How could he do it?_ _How could such a beautiful man do it to him? How could the sweet little cat turn around and show his claws?_ In his arms, Avon gurgled something through his blood.

“Doeb thib change the bast?”

Vila froze, and he felt every muscle in his body tense. His head throbbed and anger surged anew, savage and raw and instant-

“You made me _HATE YOU!_ ” he hurled Avon back into the desk behind them and, barely standing as he was, Avon fell, twisted like a ragdoll over the sharp edges of the desk. The furniture that would have hurt his back at the best of times now tumbled down on his spine, and Avon finally cried out, fuelling the rage that surged in Vila like the magnetic thrum of A&S had done now for so long; his crutch against a cruel world and a failing lover.

Vila stomped over to the tumbled desk chair and kicked it off Avon, hauled the man to his feet, and then hurled him down again. Avon’s knees scraped the ground and his weakened arms did little to stop his face colliding with the hard floor. Blood smeared across the ground and opened up the wound that had barely a chance to stop bleeding.

“You think this can make up for what you did, Avon? You _betrayed_ me. ME!” he sobbed as he took up the cord he’d cast to the floor. “And I _trusted you with my life_. I was an idiot, like you said, all along.”

Vila’s bare arm strained as he brought down the cord once more, rending the air with a _crack_ that set his teeth on edge. This time, the skin split. Avon screamed, and when he eventually found the strength to drag his head back up again-

That was sight that broke him.

Avon, on his bruised hands and knees, with an oozing, bloody gash across his shoulders, bitten lips and burning red eyes. He didn’t weep. No. Avon never did, even now, but the fat tears that coursed down his ruddy cheeks kept coming and coming and suddenly- Vila couldn’t look anymore.

Acid boiled in his throat, and he couldn’t stop the hideous self-loathing that clawed its way up his gut.

“Why, Avon, why the _FUCK_ did you have to do that!” he shrieked and hurled his improvised weapon across the room fiercely, pulling the muscles in his arm as he went. “You would have KILLED ME! You hunted me down like a DOG! A Delta- a Delta- fucking- dog-”

He didn’t even feel the harsh metal floor as he crashed to his knees.

“I thought you _loved me!_ ” he gasped, choked, and nearly retched, face a hideous mess of snot and tears. And still, Avon looked at him. All the bitterness, hatred, _contempt_ seeped out of his bones and he collapsed in a heap on the floor by the splatters of Avon’s drying blood. “I thought you loved me.”

It didn’t make it right. He didn’t feel better. He was going to be sick. And Avon kept _staring_ at him with those eyes.

Vila hadn’t seen Avon’s eyes when he’d stalked him on the shuttle. He didn’t think he’d be able to look at Avon ever again if he had. But he could imagine – that crazed look, lacking the fire and passion that he’d once known well, replaced by some hideous, hollow, unseeing void. But still determined. It was the same look Avon gave him now, crouched as he was on the floor in a puddle of his own spit and tears; a filthy, worthless, disgusting mess.

“Quit STARING, you BASTARD!” Vila spat venom and scrambled to his feet, heart and head pounding, the cabin suddenly spinning. His hands were shaking. They _never_ shook.

He slammed over the physical door release and bolted from the room and was sick in the hallway.

When the door slid shut, Avon took in the rattling breath and he’d been holding and smashed his chin to the floor in a dead faint.

Footsteps and shouts echoed down the corridor, far far too late to help anyone.


End file.
